T-packs of Tecate
On bodega summer porches
Strumming ukuleles in the hundred plus heat
Mason jars of slickened vodka
Poured from lowshelf plastic bottles
Through pyrex tubes of charcoal
In the basement hid below
The Tecate tastes of lettuce
The vodka tastes of silver
All twisted by the salty rim
Of sweltered summer lips
Sometimes there was a bourbon
Or overpriced tequila
Or plastic scent of rock cocaine
When the buses cracked their doors
And on the breezeless ether
Your voice rang out and echo’d
In the cities grimey theater
They heard you 6 blocks away
And creeping in from dust clouds
Those ticket puncher haboobs
The sound of curse filled ballads
Ushered strangers to their seats
Some would bring a cello
Or a rag wrapped plastic hanger
A sense of rhythm foreign
a harmonica (wrong key)
A pepperoni pizza
So greasy it ran for office
And a pair of dancing waitresses
Who sang along our songs
I in one drunken evening
Thought “I wish you were my father”
But I kept my disappointment
Entirely to myself
we drank brown bottle IPAs
And sang the songs of bullfrogs
Then walked to trucks and bicycles
And vanished into night.
Now there stands no homestead
The bodega turned to rubble
Replaced by highrise condos
Urban renewal priced dreams
All that lasts of wednesdays
Is a single seafoam tile
From the bathroom of the time before
Framed and on my wall.
Kevin M. Flanagan is a writer, performer, and artist living in Phoenix, Arizona. When Kevin was three years old, he pushed a sheet metal screw up his nose. It was there for some time before being discovered, and required a trip to the emergency room to remove. This is Kevin’s earliest memory. His work recently featured in the Exposition Review. He can be reached at kevinmflanagan.com. Follow them on Twitter @kevindischord.